


i tell you everything (i know that you won't tell on me)

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Body Image, Comfort, Cooking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fem Gallavich, Fluff, Genderswap, Insecurity, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wives, i'm a lesbian in case you couldn't tell. like just in case it wasn't clear, like as an undertone. it's not there but it is, tagging it again because COMFORT, talks of bipolar disorder i guess. in case it triggers anybody, they're soon to be wives, wives raising kids cooperating being family i love lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23683459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ian wants to tell her she loves her, wants to say it a million times and then some, but here, with the weight of Mickey’s head on her chest, her legs all tangled up with hers on the bathroom floor and Liam soundly watching his cartoons one floor down – Ian can’t move, and she can’t speak, and she wouldn’t dare to even if she could.Mickey kisses her hand, and that’s that.or, three times ian's insecure and mickey comforts her, and one time mickey succumbs to the pressure and ian steps up
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 4
Kudos: 85





	i tell you everything (i know that you won't tell on me)

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know if the summary is clear enough but this is one of the 3+1 deals i guess.....pretty sweet, pretty cute, pretty corny, i don't know what you expected from me.
> 
> got the motivation from [these](https://thelesbiancometh.tumblr.com/post/615505598160764928/could-you-write-fem-gallavich-things-like-smut) [two](https://thelesbiancometh.tumblr.com/post/615506765082247168/i-am-also-an-lesbian-lol-i-just-want-to-see-soft) asks from a certain incredibly cute anon on tumblr (thank you sweets!!) and apparently i take prompts now, so if you got any don't hesitate to drop 'em on my [tumblr](https://sapphicfiona.tumblr.com), genderswap or not, or even go over there to yell at me or tell me how much you hated this!! i don't bite.
> 
> i hope you enjoy this.

i.

It’s not often that Ian feels like this.

Granted, she doesn’t even have the time to feel  _ any  _ type of way anymore; with the exception of bedtime, when she curls up behind Mickey and wraps her arms around her soft middle, burying her nose in her thick locks of hair, when she feels so right and so in love that it fills her heart up with it. But what with studying and EMT training, with work, with wedding planning and with looking after Liam and Franny, Ian hasn’t felt like herself in a long time. And as a result, she has been guilty of letting herself go a little bit.

Well, to be exact, Ian hasn’t even  _ thought  _ of being to the gym for weeks now, and her meals have become a lot more erratic and random lately, courtesy of being preoccupied with making sure Liam, Franny, and Mickey get to eat before she does. And it’s fine, it’s always been fine as long as the three of them are good and swell; but Ian finds herself lingering in front of the mirror nowadays, pressing her palms over the slightly protruding sides she has never remembered being there, and feeling her back starting to knot with the dysphoria.

Today is one of those mornings.

She’s standing in her childhood bedroom – the room she and Mickey have occupied until the blessed moment they can find an apartment they can both agree on, which looks to be a long time from now – wearing the ragged old boxers Mickey had stolen from the men’s section of some store back when they were teenagers, her tank shedded off her and discarded on their bed – Ian’s old twin mattress – her bra digging into her shoulders. Liam is off to school and Franny is with her mother for the day, and Ian has enough free time to let her eyes peruse and scrutinize every inch of her body, an arm wrapping over her chest and her hand coming up to let her chew on a thumbnail nervously.

She lingers on a lovebite next to her bellybutton, trying to make out the shape of Mickey’s pursed mouth by its ivory shade, taking a moment to laugh against her finger as she brushes a trimmed fingernail over it. Her hip jiggles as she does so, and she narrows her eyes at it, as if it has personally scorned her.

“Hey, we’re out of milk,” she hears Mickey as she ascends up the stairs, suddenly approaching the doorframe lazily. “You wanna give me a lift to the store or–” she pauses, leaning against the door with a raised eyebrow. “We havin’ a party?”

Ian ignores her, discreetly wrapping an arm around her middle as she regards her with a little quirk of her mouth. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re half naked,” Mickey offers as an explanation, walking closer as if magnetized. She hooks a finger into Ian’s stolen boxer shorts, pulling her closer with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Always a party for me.”

Ian exhales a laugh through her nose, a hand betraying her and climbing up to card through Mickey’s newly grown out hair, black and thick and lovely as it cascades down her shoulder-blades. The side of her head, still shaven, beckons her closer – and she leans in, kissing it like she loves to do lately, like it has become her favorite spot. She rubs the back of Mickey’s neck as if in apology, “Not in the mood today. Sorry.”

“Oh,” Mickey exhales, pulling back just slightly, just so she can look at her. “That’s fine, sweets,” she smiles, though there’s something troubled in her eyes. She waits to gauge a reaction, but she doesn’t get one. “Everything alright?”

“Huh?” Ian mumbles, trying to avoid the sight of them in front of the mirror. “Yeah,” she shakes her head, sniffing into Mickey’s neck. “Yeah, just… tired, I guess.”

“Tired, huh?” Mickey laughs. Ian, with the senses of her wandering hands, briefly registers that Mickey’s in her tight boxer briefs, and her ribcage – on the same level as Mickey’s chest, bless her – feels out the soft curves of Mickey’s breasts, bare and full and– God. What a fucking waste. “You sure I can’t help you relax, Gallagher?”

She can, God fucking knows she can. Ian closes her eyes as Mickey’s nose nuzzles against her neck, her expert mouth – expert when it comes to Ian’s body, the tingles on her skin – traveling down the expense of her throat, and she tries not to breathe too heavily, not to show just how badly she needs this. But Mickey’s wandering hands reach down to grab at the sides of her thighs, teeth nipping on the joint spot between her shoulder and neck as they start to knead at her hips – and it’s too much for her not to lose it.

“Mick,” she says as she cuts it short, softly pulling Mickey’s head up by the back of her neck. Mickey stares at her, the mirth in her soft eyes spilling out to be replaced with confusion, and love, but that’s always there. She lets it be, however, and her hands find their original place around Ian’s neck, and she can breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry, baby, I just– I don’t feel–”

“Don’t worry,” Mickey shakes her head, smiling in amusement. “You said no, I shouldn’t have…” she pauses, her eyebrows shooting up in second thought. “You don’t feel what?”

Ian chews on the inside of her cheek, side-glancing towards the mirror, and she twists them around so that Mickey’s back is towards it – so she doesn’t get any ideas and turns to look at them, turns to see their reflection and figure out how much more beautiful she is, how much better she could do, exactly how out of Ian’s league she is.

“I don’t feel  _ what?” _

“You said  _ I don’t feel… _ What?” she prompts, her head slowly motioning as if to look back, check out their reflection. Ian places a hand behind her head to stop her.

“I just– I don’t feel up for it,” she says, like a fucking liar. Never in the history of ever has Ian Gallagher  _ not felt up for it.  _ Especially in the presence of a certain Mickey Milkovich, with her full lips and her strong thighs and the freckles on her arms– She’s just riling herself up at this point. And Mickey raises her eyebrows again, as if she can smell the bullshit a mile away. “It’s true! God, I just dropped off Liam at school.  _ Sorry  _ if I don’t wanna fuck at eight in the fucking morning.”

“We’ve done it at six in the morning before,” Mickey mutters, and Ian gives her an incredulous look. “Alright,  _ Jesus. _ Was just saying.” She mulls it over, chewing on her bottom lip as if in deep thought. “Sure everything’s okay?”

Ian falters, the softness of Mickey’s expression still managing to catch her off guard. It always does. “Yeah,” she says, not even able to convince herself. And Mickey’s always known her. “How ‘bout that milk? I know you can’t function without your cornflakes.”

“I can’t function with you moping around all day,” Mickey deadpans. The look in Ian’s eyes must be one of utter exasperation, and she finally allows Mickey to twist her head around and look at the two of them in the mirror, side of her mouth quirking up in pride. “This shit again?”

Ian scoffs, “What the hell do you mean?”

“I know what I mean.”

“You’re the only fucking one, you know that?” replies Ian, with her fingers locked behind Mickey’s waist. She doesn’t want to pick a fight today. “Why don’t we just drop it? Go have breakfast outside, hm?” she nudges her nose against Mickey’s – knowing damn well she’s a sucker for it. “Eggs and bacon and coffee and shit?”

Mickey slaps her on the cheek, playfully.  _ “Not _ working.”

Ian groans, unlocking Mickey’s fingers from behind her neck and pushing them away, walking away towards the bathroom. Of course, Mickey follows suit, and doesn’t let her shut the door as Ian sits down to take a leak.

“Can I take a piss in  _ private, _ please?” she says, even as the boxers pool around her feet. The stream comes as Mickey leans against the doorframe and raises her eyebrows, looking ridiculous with such a serious face on – Ian’s fucking _ pissing,  _ for crying out loud. She says nothing, so Ian huffs and presses her palm under her chin. “Guess not…”

“Talk to me,” Mickey begs, face not breaking out into a humorous expression for a goddamn second considering the ridiculousness of the situation. “We’re gonna be fucking hitched soon and you still think you can keep shit from me. How am I supposed to be your wife if you won’t fucking _ talk?” _

Ian’s heart, despite herself, skips a beat at the unprompted visual. _ Wife.  _ There’s a lot of personal baggage contained within that word – and it’s all good, so fucking good. She doesn’t want to associate it with a moment like this.

Ian manages to shake herself out of it. “I just don’t wanna talk about it,” she says, ripping up some toilet paper. She’d like to think she’s gonna be able to properly let her fucking guard down once she’s married, once Mickey is officially a part of her – not that she isn’t _ now, _ but she doesn’t want anybody else except the two of them to know that – but a part of her also knows the change has got to start now. It’s so hard, though. The hardest thing she’ll have to do. Mickey’s still watching her as she washes her hands, and she meets her eyes through the mirror over the sink. “I’m serious.”

“Tough fucking titties,” Mickey deadpans, and it pulls a genuine laugh out of Ian. What a fucking idiot. “You either tell me what’s wrong or I call the whole thing off.”

“Serious fucking threat you’ve got there,” Ian rolls her eyes, wiping her hands off with a towel and shoving it into Mickey’s chest as she walks past. Mickey follows her down the stairs, to her dismay. “You love being a bride-to-be too much. All this attention– I’d like to see you _ try _ and cancel it.”

“Don’t push me,” Mickey warns, a dangerous edge to her tone, pointing at Ian with the used towel. Ian only sticks her tongue out at her as she rummages through the cupboards for some coffee. “Is this about your tits again? Because I’ve already said I think they’re super cute, alright, they don’t need to be fucking _ monsters–” _

“Oh, my  _ God,” _ Ian groans, but it doesn’t deter Mickey in the slightest.

“In fact, I think small tits are extremely underrated,” she continues, pressing behind Ian’s back to cup both of her breasts casually. Ian just lets it happen, dropping two spoonfuls of coffee in a tall glass. “And they do it for me, you know? Wouldn’t trade them for the world.”

Ian doesn’t even fucking reply. “You want some frappe?”

“Sure. Are you listening to me?”

“No,” she lies, not even having to think about how Mickey takes her coffee. It’s one of their secret love languages – Ian knows how to make Mickey’s coffee better than she knows how to make hers, and Mickey’s even worse, forgetting how to make her own altogether. “Can you take your hands off me so I can get this done?”

Mickey grumbles under her breath but obliges, letting Ian do her thing as she strides over the counter and leans over it, opposite from Ian. She glances up at Mickey through her eyelids, always catching her looking. 

“I’m right, though, ain’t I?” Mickey pushes, skeptical and so beautiful with her chin poised on a delicate fist. The shaved side of her head catches in the sunlight that cracks through the window, and Ian has to swallow before she shrugs, eyes down on the mixer.

“I guess I just don’t feel very sexy these days,” she says, the buzz of the mixer in the coffee punctuating her misery. “Pre-wedding jitters. Not that big a deal.”

A brief glance up at Mickey and Ian determines that it  _ is  _ that big a deal. She’s looking at her with that signature softness around her features, blue eyes all icy and warm at the same time, and her finger digs thoughtfully into her own cheek. Ian has to look down at their coffees again.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she adds, her shoulders on edge as Mickey fails to reply. “You wanted to know what’s wrong. _ There. _ Want ice?” she asks, even though she fucking knows damn well whether she wants ice or not. Two ice cubes, always. Mickey knows she knows, because she’s still choosing to be goddamn silent.

Ian decides to carry both of their coffees towards the living room and drop them down on the table, legs all spread as she drops her weight down on the couch and sighs, switching the TV on for a bit of noise. She’s not used to this charged quiet, and she finds herself wishing she hadn’t spoken today at all.

Slowly, she feels a weight sink down on the cushion next to hers, and her eyes betray her and peer over; Mickey’s chewing on her bottom lip, and as soon as she’s got Ian’s attention she leans in, her mouth connecting to Ian’s own like it belongs there, all plush and confident and healing. She kisses her like she’s going out of style, and lets her hands bury themselves into the curls that frame her cheeks, her tongue swiping out across Ian’s bottom lip to turn it heated, have Ian panting and craving more.

“You’re the sexiest fucking woman I’ve ever laid eyes on,” she mumbles against the skin of Ian’s collarbone, starting to suck a bruise on the protruding bone. As if to make a point, she drags her fingers down the middle of Ian’s abdomen, making her hiss from the coldness of her fingertips. “Have you seen those fucking abs?”

Ian laughs, sighing as a sneaky hand unclasps her bra from behind. “Have  _ you?” _

Mickey hums distractedly, sliding one strap after another down Ian’s shoulders, eyes stuck on the soft skin of Ian’s exposed chest. “You’d kick me if I told you I dream of them,” she says, and Ian laughs her agreement. “You make me sound all corny.”

The witty retort gets lost in Ian’s throat as a tongue flicks over her nipple, and her eyes flicker shut, hands sliding down Mickey’s back to grab her ass, serving as some sort of leverage. She feels like she’s falling down a ten-storey building all of a sudden, the swirl of her stomach with every tongue flick over her tits adding momentum to her drop, and she collides with the ground once Mickey buries her face between her legs, kneading her hands over the extra flesh around Ian’s hips. This time, she lets her.

_ “Not in the fucking mood,” _ Mickey mocks as she comes up for air, and Ian would kiss her if she stopped being such an ass. “I wonder how you act when you  _ are  _ in the mood.”

“You’ve fuckin’ seen me in the mood enough times now,” Ian breathes, pushing Mickey’s face back between her legs once she sees the beginnings of that cocky smile. “Why don’t you  _ do  _ something about it?”

Mickey eats her out like her life depends on it, like she’s trying to convey all her love through the frantic flicks of her tongue, which Ian has to imagine is cramping up impossibly bad right now. There’s slick running down Mickey’s chin, and Ian has the decency to rub it away with a gentle thumb when she comes up for air again, smiling down at her in awestruck fondness.

“Sexiest fucking woman on the planet,” Mickey groans after a moment of them silently staring each other down, biting down on her thigh and mumbling against her skin. “I’m so fuckin’  _ lucky,  _ man.”

And in that moment, Ian feels like it might as well be true.

ii.

It’s so  _ ridiculous  _ that Ian has a hard time even starting to feel bad about it.

But she does, and that’s the reality of the situation. Every morning she wakes up at around six thirty, carefully untangling herself from the sleeping lump that is Mickey’s body and lightly kissing the shaved side of her head before sleepily trudging her way down the stairs, taking a moment to sober up and make herself a coffee before she starts on everybody’s breakfast. It’s routine. It has  _ been  _ routine ever since Fiona moved out, and it  _ will  _ be routine until she and Mickey get hitched and decide to get their own apartment – and even then, Ian imagines they’ll probably end up spending most nights here anyway, too worried about the kids to keep their distance.

And so, every morning, Ian spends a certain amount of love and time and affection into making the pancakes, or making the omelette, or making the eggs and toast – knows just how much salt Liam likes, knows Mickey likes them sunny side up, knows Lip will probably take his coffee to go before he leaves with a kiss to her head before anybody else wakes up. She knows. But it still comes as a shock when all this time and effort ends up being for nothing.

Liam descends down the stairs at around seven thirty, backpack already on his back and teeth brushed, so Ian does the only thing she knows how to do with her eyes closed ever since his birth and grabs his face, kissing up a line from his cheek to his temple. As much as he complains, shit never gets old.

“Good morning, little man,” Ian begins, all beaming and sweet. She woke up like this today – probably courtesy of Mickey stirring awake as she was trying to get out of bed earlier, and giving her a sleepy smile and a peck on the nose. This tends to do it for the rest of the day, usually. “Alright, we got your eggs, got your bacon– And I think I’m even gonna let you try a bit of coffee today, huh? What do you say?”

Liam looks conflicted, chewing on the inside of his cheek with one eye down on his phone screen. He starts to drag out a vowel, glancing towards the stairs as Mickey and Franny start to walk around upstairs. “I’m kinda meeting some friends before school today,” he says, shrugging as if it’s not that big a deal. Ian pauses from where she’s flipping an omelette. “Yeah, Tommy’s mom invited us all for breakfast and she’s got those big sausages and stuff and– I don’t know. I thought it would be rude to say no.”

Ian watches him watch her, with an expectant look that tells her it depends on her. And as much as she feels like Liam is her baby, the truth is he’s not a baby anymore, and she forces a smile on her sleep-ridden face. “Sure, buddy,” she says, grabbing a piece of toast from the side. “Eat this on your way there at least, okay? And text me or Mickey if this kid’s mom ends up being a terrible cook or something and you need some extra lunch,” she jokes, her smile a tiny bit more real as Liam beams and leans up to kiss her cheek, taking the toast and yelling his goodbyes as he makes his way out the front door. Ian watches him go through the kitchen window, lip caught between her teeth.

And, like – it’s not the  _ first  _ time. Ian often finds herself cooking for the kids or the other occupants of this house, as much as she’d like to believe it’s only she, Mickey, Liam, and Franny sometimes, and she sometimes finds herself shut down, having it be communicated to her that somebody else could do better, or that she’s not doing enough, or that she can’t make anybody stay just because she  _ wants  _ to.

She thinks about all this with a sheen of tears covering her eyes, pretending to be invested in not burning Franny’s omelette as she hears her and Mickey come down the stairs, Mickey already cooing in her ear about something.

“Guess who’s all grumpy this morning,” Mickey says as a way of greeting, dropping a kiss on Ian’s lips in passing. “Miss Lady here had a hard time getting out of bed today, hm?”

Franny rubs at her eye and buries her head into Mickey’s neck, and she shrugs at Ian as she props her up on her hip. Some of Ian’s good mood is regained, seeing her wife – she thinks she’s earned the right to call her her wife – be so good with children, so caring and loving and everything she knows she is, but nobody else does. Absently, she grins at the both of them, trying to meet Franny’s half-lidded eyes.

“Hey, munchkin,” she tries, but Franny’s entirely too grumpy for conversation. Mickey sits her down on her lap as she sits on the dining table. “Mommy’s gonna be here soon to pick you up again! Gotta eat up, alright?”

Mickey’s already dressed her, as she had insisted on doing back when they still picked their roles as official occupants of this house, because she claimed to have the best fashion sense out of all of them combined. Secretly, Ian thinks Mickey’s treating Franny as if she’s the little Barbie Doll she never had.

“Hey, Doll,” Mickey murmurs in her ear, and Ian laughs to herself. “Don’t get all grumpy on me, hm? Won’t see you for the rest of the day. Where’s that smile?”

Franny doesn’t budge, but she ends up burrowing closer into Mickey’s chest, still braless and plump under a sleeveless shirt. Ian stores that information in her mind for later.

“Alright!” she says, overly-excited, and she drops the omelette in front of Franny’s narrowed eyes. “Want some juice with that, munchkin?”

Instead of replying, Franny pushes the plate away with a chubby hand, twisting her head around so that it’s buried in Mickey’s neck. Mickey, startled, makes eye contact with Ian, who was in the middle of bringing Mickey’s eggs forward to the table.

“Not hungry, sweets?” Mickey mutters, trying to coax it out of her by leaving tiny little kisses against her temple. She doesn’t break eye contact with Ian. “I don’t know if that mother of yours has the mind to give you any breakfast so you gotta eat now, baby.”

Franny shakes her head adamantly, pushing away the plate that Mickey nudged closer more pointedly, and she says something that sounds very much like: “Yuck…” to Ian’s ears. Her heart drops to the pit of her stomach, but she ends up leaving Mickey’s own breakfast on the table and not making a big scene about Franny eating it, as she would normally.

“Not in the mood for eggs?” Mickey presses quietly, one eye still on Ian. Monitoring. She always knows when something’s wrong – the drawbacks of love, Ian guesses. “Auntie made them just for you, honey. Wanna try just a bite?”

Mickey, bless her heart, cuts a piece of omelette with a fork and tries to hover it in front of Franny’s face, nearly dropping it as she jerkily pushes it away, her patience running thin. Mickey gives Ian an apologetic look, eating the piece herself before she picks the kid up and approaching the fruit bowl on the counter.

“Alright,” she sighs, grabbing a banana. Ian is staring down at Liam’s plate, not having started on her own breakfast. She supposes she could eat the one – or  _ ones  _ – that’s leftover. She glances up when she feels Mickey watching her, plastering on a fake smile once she figures out the concern in her face, and Mickey gives a reluctant smile back as she peels the banana, Franny sitting on the counter in front of her.

Debbie ends up arriving to pick her up about ten minutes later, all of which they spend in silence, Ian sulking on the dining table and Mickey getting Franny ready for the day, keeping an eye on her wife simultaneously. Once she hands the kid off, Mickey shuts the door, making herself comfortable on Ian’s mostly naked lap.

“Okay,” she sighs, pushing her fingers through the curls in Ian’s face and carding them down her hair. “Talk to mama.”

Ian shrugs noncommittally, absently stroking a fingertip on the side of Mickey’s thigh. “Nothing to talk about,” she offers, nodding towards Franny’s untouched – save for Mickey’s fork – omelette. “Guess I should eat that.”

She leans over and grabs the plate, one hand stable on Mickey’s leg, holding her in place while she cuts up some pieces of it one-handed, still very much sulking. Mickey taps a finger against her cheek, smiling in amusement once Ian meets her eye.

“You’re all grumpy because of Franny?” she asks, quiet, like it’s a secret. “You two are the absolute same, you know that? Feel like I’m raising a tiny version of my wife.”

Ian laughs around a mouthful of omelette, despite herself.

“Kids will be kids, Freckles,” Mickey sighs, leaning over to pull her own plate in front of her. Ian’s face scrunches up as she imagines how cold the eggs must have gone. “Nothing you can do about it but let it happen.”

Ian wants to leave it at that, but there’s a certain quality in Mickey that always gets her to keep talking, even if she doesn’t know she wants to. “Not just Franny,” Ian mumbles, and Mickey refrains from digging into her eggs in favor of devoting her sole attention to Ian. “Liam practically bailed on me this morning,” Mickey glances at the abandoned eggs on the counter. “Some snot-faced little devil’s mom luring him in with sausages and shit. You think I wouldn’t get sausages if we could  _ afford  _ sausages?”

Mickey’s smiling, and it’s very rare that Ian hates it. Today has the pleasure of being this rarity. “Not  _ that  _ expensive, sausages,” Mickey points out, laughing as Ian makes to push her off her lap. “Kidding,  _ Jeez!  _ You coming down with the old case of empty-nest syndrome, Red?”

“What if I  _ am?” _ Ian prods, angrily shoving some omelette in her mouth. “Try cooking for these kids for – I don’t even  _ know  _ how long now – and them suddenly hating it all.”

“They’re  _ kids!  _ Franny’s a certified grump these days– And Liam’s a pre-teen,” she rolls her eyes, like it’s stupid to even explain. “Come on, sweets, you need to find something else to be all sad about.”

“How about the wedding is soon and we don’t even have a venue yet?” Ian says, at which Mickey’s smile drops. “Yeah. Fuckin’ egg issue not that stupid now, is it?”

She keeps on eating the omelette, Mickey a warm, anchored weight on her lap – but she ends up pushing off of her and standing up, and Ian thinks,  _ alright, this is it. Wedding’s off. Chime the bells. _

Instead, Mickey grabs Liam’s abandoned plate and brings it over, plopping herself back down onto Ian’s lap and ignoring the cry of pain at her sudden weight. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Ian says, sounding strained. She knows exactly what the hell Mickey’s doing.

“Eating the beautiful eggs my beautiful wife made with so much love,” Mickey replies, easily, cutting up some of Liam's scrambled eggs and pointedly shoving them into her mouth. Ian makes a face.

“Both of your plates are cold,” she points out, as if Mickey didn’t know, what with stuffing her face with both her and Liam’s breakfast at the same time, as if it’s the last meal she’ll ever have.

“No fucking kidding,” she strains through a mouthful, and Ian laughs with her nose buried in Mickey’s shoulder. “How the fuck can this kid eat this much salt at seven thirty in the  _ morning? _ We need to get his blood pressure checked.”

Ian is looking up at her as she chews, fond sparkle in her eyes with her chin hooked over her shoulder, and Mickey glances down at her as an afterthought, time standing still as the air sizzles up between them. “You don’t have to eat it all,” Ian mumbles, content with a little smile on her face.  _ I get it, _ is the unspoken essence of her sentence,  _ I know how much you love my cooking, my love, my devotion, me. _

The shine in Mickey’s eyes doesn’t falter for a second as she shrugs, digging into her practically frozen eggs. “You made it, Ginger.”

And somehow, that’s enough of an explanation.

iii.

Ian faintly thinks that if she were to be smothered with the comforter she has her face burrowed under, it wouldn’t be that much of a tragedy.

It has been a rocky week, to say the least. It hasn’t been so in a long time, and her meds haven’t failed her or gone off balance for months, but it was bound to happen at some point, she supposes; she had woken up and found herself unable to get out of bed, as much as Mickey kept kissing her back and trying to coax her out before she understood what was going on.

She has barely eaten all week, half-heartedly sitting up in bed to munch on the meals Mickey lovingly set on the foot of their bed, shaking off the kisses she kept leaving on her forehead every morning – but Mickey, undeterred, kept giving them to her, sweet and comforting and everything that is Mickey. She hasn’t been to training, because she has always had to make her own life difficult for herself, and she hasn’t seen Franny or Liam in seven fucking days – Mickey, who has the biggest goddamn heart Ian has ever had the pleasure of experiencing, has been getting up at the crack ass of dawn without so much as a grumble in the morning, and she has been getting the both of them ready for the week, taking the time out of her day to sit down by the non-sleeping lump of Ian’s body under their blanket and smooth her hand down her covered thigh, talking to her as if she had been listening.

Ian feels different today. She has swallowed down the pills left on the bedside table – by whom else, she doesn’t even have to think about it – and she has enough energy to pull the covers off her face, staring at the wall in front of her as she lies on her side, one ear monitoring the movement downstairs. The door shuts, and Franny’s excited squeals cease to exist in their home, and Ian hears Mickey’s sigh and the shuffling of her bending to crack her back, and she allows herself a tiny little smile as she hears steps ascending up the stairs.

And Ian is lucky, so unbelievably lucky, and she looks at the shut window like she’s missed the blue of the sky, gone without a trace for the past week, and then she looks down at herself, noting that she’s still a person, still the same person Mickey loves and cares about. Still the person who has goals and dreams and a love so bright it could light up a thousand caves.

The door creaks open – Mickey closes it every morning, silently communicating to the whole house that this room is off limits – and somebody walks in, the smell of detergent and soap telling her it’s Mickey, with her ratty tank and her sweatpants and her hair all tangly down her back. She walks in, but Ian doesn’t move, and Mickey happens not to spare her a glance as she raises the blinds and lets the sunshine flood the room – Ian’s eyes burn but she relishes in it. Mickey sighs and puts the tray with Ian’s breakfast down, her eyes catching the empty bedside table in the process. She pauses, not expecting to see the meds swiped off the tabletop until at least two at noon, and here she sits – it’s eight thirty in the morning and Mickey finally looks at her, meeting Ian’s sleepy and clear eyes for the first time in a week.

_ “Oh,” _ she breathes, caught off guard. Ian finds it in herself to laugh, just a tiny bit, a breathy little thing exhaled through her nostrils. “I didn’t know you were awake,” she offers, sitting down at the edge of the bed carefully, cautious not to touch her in case it’s a mistake. “I would have made you your coffee.”

Ian doesn’t reply. She stretches her legs, surprised she can even move them still, and smudges her cheek against the pillow to appreciate its softness – the period after her lows is spent appreciating her surroundings, appreciating life, appreciating Mickey.

“Liam had breakfast here today,” Mickey continues, risking it and placing a hand over Ian’s knee. It feels unbelievably warm over the blanket. “I put my foot down. Missed his little face all grumpy in the morning.”

“I missed that…” Ian croaks, surprised by the sound of her own voice – unused. She doesn’t know if it’s supposed to be a question or what, but it doesn’t sound like it, and Mickey only purses her mouth and comfortingly squeezes her knee.

“Can put my foot down tomorrow, too,” she shrugs, easy. “Although I think he’s gonna stay on his own if you show up for breakfast. He missed your ugly mug.”

Ian is watching her, wishing Mickey felt confident enough to lie down next to her and talk to her face to face, like they do when Ian hasn’t been like this. She hopes her eyes communicate the sentiment, and Mickey seems to get  _ something  _ – but not all of it.

_ “I _ missed your ugly mug,” she adds, fingers stretching through the hair on the top of Ian’s head. Ian preens under her hand. “Fuckin’ stink, too. Should take a shower.”

“Will you join me?” she asks.

Instead of replying, Mickey grins in exasperation and chooses to abandon small talk in favor of lying down next to her  fiancée and pressing her nose against hers, smiling at the sight of the sand in Ian’s eyes and her rosy cheeks, and the freckles dusting her nose. As if she’s missed them. Ian wonders whether it’s a thrill for Mick – seeing her face after her depressive episodes for the first time, sometimes going without a sight for weeks at a time. They were lucky this month – a week is nothing in the grand scheme of things, and Mickey doesn’t look like she has forgotten her.

“Hell, I missed you,” she sighs, nudging her nose into Ian’s cheekbone. She laughs. “You always smell like a newborn after these things, you know that? You’re a fuckin’ baby in disguise or what?” she smiles as Ian laughs, with her eyes all crinkled and her hair spread out on the pillow next to Ian’s head. Fondly, she mutters: “My baby,” her hand stroking down Ian’s cheek.

Ian’s heart gives a flip. “Weird,” she jokes, and Mickey shrugs, welcoming the feel of Ian’s hand on her hip.

The pancakes on the tray have started to smell, filling her nostrils with sweetness and accompanying the scent of Mickey’s natural scent, all saccharine and pleasant and great and filling up her senses almost overwhelmingly, if it were ever to be enough. They watch each other, mirth and love and familiarity, and Ian feels privy to Mickey’s thoughts – all sweet, all pure.

“Franny’s going through a ribbon phase,” Mickey blurts out, and Ian’s mouth pulls up by the sides. “Steals them from packages. Puts them everywhere – her hair, wrists, ankles. Blue, pink, yellow, you name it.”

Ian hums, tapping her fingers against Mickey’s thigh.She absently flicks away a strand of hair covering Mickey’s collarbone. “Debbie picked her up?”

“Why do you think I’m sitting on my ass?” says Mickey, matter-of-factly. “Haven’t had time to take a shit this week. You better think long and hard before you make me have kids when we get hitched, Gallagher.”

It’s a joke. Ian  _ knows  _ it’s a joke, and she  _ tries  _ to laugh, tries to  _ take  _ it as a joke – but the side of her mouth drops too quick to her dismay, and there Mickey is, worried as always.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” she says, soft and calming. Ian’s eyes feel wet either way. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that,” she repeats, wiping a thumb under Ian’s eye, although the tears haven’t started to rush yet. “Come on, sweets. I’m not mad at you.”

The words register in Ian’s psyche, but she still stares at the window, trying to let the hand stroking her cheek anchor her and warm her up again, but she can’t. She hates to think that Mickey might be beating herself up over something she said, hates that she’s unable to make it better. Hates that she always does the opposite of what she wants, no matter how hard she tries, or how hard she dies.

“Thank you,” Ian mumbles, and Mickey looks surprised that she spoke at all. “Thanks for still being here.”

She practically hears Mickey’s heart breaking, and she hates it. “Don’t be fucking daft,” she says, and it’s not malicious – she thinks that’s what hurts the most. “Don’t wanna be anywhere else,” her smile is bittersweet. “Don’t wanna be anywhere you’re not.”

Ian hates that she can’t pay the purple prose any mind. “I’m a fuckin’ problem, aren’t I?” she admits, little laugh sounding breathy through her nose, though Mickey’s face remains stone cold. “I’m so sorry. Wish it wasn’t like this.”

Mickey is watching her a tad bit more closely, if that was even possible. “It’s part of who you are,” she says simply. “And I love you, don’t I? I signed up for it.” She smiles. “Don’t we love each other, Freckles?”

Ian sighs. “You don’t deserve it.”

“I agree,” Mickey says, and Ian does a double take. “You’re too good for me.”

She laughs before she can help it, feeling herself get all scooped up in Mickey’s arms, despite the obvious size difference between them – and she burrows her face into Mickey’s neck, the obvious parallels between her and Franny be damned.

Mickey kisses the top of her head. “And if you call yourself a fuckin’ problem again I’m gonna  _ give  _ you a problem to worry about,” she says, digging her nails into Ian’s thigh as she lets out a sharp laugh. “Fuckin’ talking about problems when you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” She drops another kiss on the top of Ian’s head, lingering. “Reason why I’m alive.”

Ian stares at the window, and she forgets how it feels not to be in Mickey’s arms.

iv.

Mickey’s not in bed when Ian wakes up.

That’s not necessarily unheard of. Sometimes, Mickey needs a bit more time in the bathroom, and so she wakes up earlier than anybody else, but she ends up coming out just in time to stir Franny awake, getting her ready for the day as Ian makes breakfast. But today, Franny jumps on her bed on her own, shaking her awake.

“Hey, munchkin,” Ian mumbles, checking the clock on the bedside table. Nine on a Saturday. She lets her head fall back onto the pillow. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Mommy’s at the door,” Franny says, pushing the hair out of her face delicately, using more of her palm than she does her fingers. Ian watches her in fondness for all about a minute before she frowns.

“Mommy’s picking you up today?” she asks, sitting up and checking the entire room. No sign of Mickey.

“Yeah. She told Auntie yesterday,” she continues, allowing herself to be picked up by Ian, still chatting as they walk down the stairs just in time for Ian to hear another knock on the door. “We’re going to the shops!”

“Are you?” Ian grins, and opens the door to a fidgety-looking Debbie. She calms at the sight of her daughter, opening her arms up as Ian makes to pass her over. “Sorry about that, Debs. Have you been waiting long?”

“Only about half an hour,” she retorts, putting some hair behind Franny’s ear as she walks in front of Ian. Ian rolls her eyes before closing the door. “Mickey sleeping in today?”

“No,” Ian frowns, scratching the top of her head. “She wasn’t in bed this morning either. Probably showering or something.”

Debbie hums, attention solely on her baby. “Ready to go, honey?” she coos, smiling as Franny wraps her arms around her neck, bending down to grab her discarded shoes from the floor. She kisses Ian on the cheek as a goodbye and then she’s gone, Franny waving at her aunt the whole way down the sidewalk, and Ian faintly registers the TV being on as she closes the door and expects peace and quiet. She walks over to the living room, spotting Liam with a bowl of Lucky Charms, watching the morning cartoons.

“Morning,” she says, dropping a kiss on his head. He hums in acknowledgment. “Seen Mickey?”

“In the bathroom,” he offers, shrugging noncommittally.

She yells her thanks as she jogs up the stairs. Granted, the bathroom door is shut, light switched off due to the natural morning light, and she lingers outside of the door, contemplating on whether she should knock or not. She clears her throat, trying to make her presence known, and the shuffling from the other end stops.

She knocks for typicality. “Baby?” she calls, grazing her knuckles against the wood of the door. “Franny’s gone.”

She gets a muffled reply, something that she suspects was a mere hum, and it sounds shaky. Concern spikes up her spine.

“Mick?” she calls again. No reply. “You okay?”

There’s more shuffling, sounding wet and quiet and familiar. Ian crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe, tipping her head back until it touches the door.

“Will you at least say something? Give me a sign?” she presses, lips quirking up. “Slide a used tampon under the door to let me know you’re okay? Telepathically send me a kiss?  _ Anything?” _

She hears Mickey laugh through the cracks of the door, and something immediately warms up in her chest.  _ Bingo. _

“Fucking  _ dick,” _ she hears, all mumbled and fond and sad, and she really wants to be on the other side of this fucking door.

A silent beat passes. “Can I come in?” Ian says quietly, chewing her lip at the lack of response. “I won’t talk. I’m not gonna, like, make any jokes. Unless you want me to.”

Another silent beat, and the lock turns as Mickey laments: “I  _ never  _ want you to.” She’s lying.

Ian walks in, hit with the smell of chlorine and detergent before anything else, and she watches Mickey as she’s sitting on the toilet seat, head buried in her hands. She’s sniffling, raising her face to greet Ian with the sight of her tear-streaked cheeks. “Can you shut the door, please?”

In a daze, Ian obeys, but she leaves it unlocked. She automatically finds herself kneeling in front of Mickey, who towers over her for once, and she places a hand on her knee in question, figuring she doesn’t need to talk. It’s not often that Mickey gets like this –  _ allows  _ herself to get like this, all small and vulnerable and sensitive – but it always comes as a shock when she does, because Ian’s so used to her being the solid weight on her side that anchors her back down on Earth, relies on her to push through the hardest days and force her to do the same.  _ This  _ Mickey, all small and watching her with the wet cheeks almost teasing, with her eyebrows sloping together and her fingers digging into her cheek as her chin rests on her palm – it’s something unfamiliar, but very welcome, because Ian’s gonna get her through this. They live through everything.

“One of  _ those  _ days,” Mickey offers as an explanation, feeling as though she has to say something. And she doesn’t have to, not at all, but if she wants to, Ian is more than happy to indulge her.

“One of  _ those  _ days,” Ian repeats, almost cooing it. She drops a kiss on Mickey’s hand, and then another one, and they all linger on her cold skin. It’s all too much apparently – Mickey’s eyes well up with fresh tears, and she starts to pick at the shaved side of her head self-consciously. “Oh– Don’t cry, baby. I’ll shut the fuck up. There,” she pretends to zip up her mouth and throw away the key, and Mickey can’t help but laugh through the silent tears.

Ian watches her as she wipes a hand under her nose, one hand always trapped between Ian’s own. “It’s like–” she pauses, sounding frustrated with herself. Ian waits patiently. “I don’t fucking know. I don’t fucking know what I’m doing.”

Ian kisses her palm again.

“I don’t know if I deserve all this,” she says, and Ian’s lips pause on her skin. “A wedding, the kids, the love.  _ You.” _ She peers up at Ian, crystal blue and wet. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Ian mutters, gluing herself against Mickey’s knee. She gives it a squeeze, watches as Mickey’s nose twitches, all red and blotchy. “Where is this coming from?”

Mickey shrugs, ever an open book. She cards her fingers through the side of Ian’s head, hair tangling up between her fingers, but it’s a smooth slide, and she smiles proudly at the sight of Ian. “I’ve been a horrible person,” she continues, so opposed to the feeling her hands cause low in Ian’s gut. “Haven’t I?”

Ian catches the hand on the side of her head, bringing it down to rest it over her chest. “What in God's name are you talking about?” she says, incredulous, and Mickey smiles again. “Or do you want me to go on a rant about how much better my life became once we got our shit together? You wanna hear it  _ again?” _

Mickey shakes her head. “I just– I think there’s somebody out there that deserves it more than I do, you know? Somebody who’s  _ been  _ nice.”

“You deserve it more than anyone,” Ian is quick to decide, draping an arm over Mickey’s joint thighs and bringing her hand up to rest on the back of her neck. Slowly, she coaxes Mickey’s head down and slots their mouths together lazily, tasting the salt of her tears on her lips. She presses her forehead against Mickey’s jaw once they pull apart, sighing in content: “Can’t  _ believe  _ how far you’ve come.”

Mickey looks at her knees, then peers up at Ian through uncertain eyes. “Really?”

_ “Really? _ You’re basically a whole different person, baby,” she beams, pride dripping from her voice, and Mickey can  _ feel  _ it – because her shoulders don’t look so slumped anymore, and she finds it in herself to smile. “Well, you  _ shower  _ now for one.”

Ian gets a kick in the shin for that, laughing through the cry of pain as Mickey regrets it and buries herself in her wife’s arms, letting her scent and her skin and her everything consume her. “Dick,” she murmurs, still laughing, closing her eyes against the steady thump of Ian’s chest.

Ian wants to tell her she loves her, wants to say it a million times and then some, but here, with the weight of Mickey’s head on her chest, her legs all tangled up with hers on the bathroom floor and Liam soundly watching his cartoons one floor down – Ian can’t move, and she can’t speak, and she wouldn’t dare to even if she could.

Mickey kisses her hand, and that’s that.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for checking this out! all feedback is welcome


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